


Musings of a Dream

by flimsycoats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Light Angst, Mentioned Black Eagles Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Golden Deer Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned My Unit | Byleth, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsycoats/pseuds/flimsycoats
Summary: “Everyone is affected by the war — how has it affected you?”“It hasn't.”
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Musings of a Dream

“I don't understand the appeal of war.” She scrunches her nose, fingers trailing the side of the page. Cyril stares at her in wonderment. “Is violence necessary to achieve whatever it is that you desire?”

Maybe. That depends, he wants to tell her, but he is speechless when she speaks; the edge of her voice dripping both honey and venom. Her piercing pink eyes skim across the words on the page. Cyril tries to do the same, but he gives up entirely when she turns the parchment to the next, not even batting an eye at him in the process.

He lets out a shaky breath, she notices.

“I suppose some ambitions are harder to reach than others.” She closes her eyes. “But, even still, shedding the blood of your comrades — would it be worth it?”

Lysithea turns the page back to the previous one, eyeing her companion carefully as the knots in his shoulders loosen, crimson eyes soon scanning the paper for more words that he could comprehend.

She'd ramble on about whatever came to mind, and he'd listen, wordlessly, without a reply, because she knew better, she said; she was wiser and older; albeit by only eight moons, but she was still more experienced nonetheless. She knows war — she's read about them in the past. Cyril knows war, too, but only because of the things he had seen back in Almyra. He knows that your vision darkens the more exhausted you are from fighting. He knows the sound of blood splattering across the concrete and he knows how to check if a soldier was still alive. He knows the scent of vulneraries and antitoxins — he knows it all too well, but he'd never tell her, because he was still a kid, and he didn't want her to pity him; everyone else in the academy could look down on him for all he cared, but not Lysithea; never Lysithea. He valued her, as a friend, an instructor, and a soldier — but he'd also never tell her that.

During afternoons like this, he'd watch her wax poetic about the things she disliked in between their breaks. She'd teach him letters and then she'd go about her day — Leonie did this, Claude did that, Lorenz did this _again,_ those kinds of things. She'd read him prose and poetry, and he'd try to follow her lips. Wordlessly.

It was out of character of him to stay quiet.

Ambitions are ambitions; and people can only go so far without taking risks in order to achieve them _,_ he tells himself, soon focusing on stringing together the letters scribbled on the page, trying his hardest to form coherent words with them. He lowers his head. What did he know? He was barely fifteen. Ambitions were foreign territory to him — because he had none. He wakes up and he cleans; someone in the monastery makes trouble, he is there to fix it up. He scrubs the walls of the Cathedral, he waters the plants in the greenhouse, he follows Lady Rhea. Ambitions were silly for people like him. They'd only go to waste; and Cyril didn't like it when that happened. He was efficient. Always. If someone were to ask him, maybe he had a few dreams — but none as extreme as the students' in the monastery. He wanted to travel — traverse through the woodlands, through the ocean, maybe learn how to ride a wyvern because they've always looked cool; and being up above the skyline, moving along with the direction of the wind was a feeling that he'd love to experience.

But that was all. It wasn't much — but that didn't matter. Ambitions are ambitions, no matter how little, but he'd never acknowledge that for himself; it would only go to waste. He was not given the privilege to dream in this world, so whatever else is offered, he will gladly accept.

She blows the candle out, the remnants of the smoke soon dissipating around them as Cyril closes the book, his hand lingering on its spine. It was three in the afternoon; their time together had ended. Lysithea's eyes are heavy as she stares at him — piercing. He wanted to look away but he could never pry his gaze from her; so he held his ground, just like he's always done. He masks the gnawing anxiety with a look of nonchalance. She tilts her head.

“I wonder.” The female inhales, placing a finger on her chin as she lets her pink optics soften. “Worst comes to worst — would you fall victim to indulging in needless violence as well?”

She was selfish, and she knew, because she's done that before but she was out here preaching like a saint. They were ruffians, thieves, but still _people_ nevertheless — but she assured herself. _That was necessary. It was for the greater good._ Always for the greater good of Garreg Mach. Always protecting the sanctity of the church; but what about the masses? The starving families of the thieves, the debts left unpaid, the crying children in the streets? Their crimes were unjustifiable, sure, but were they truly worthy of death just for stealing a few gold and silver pieces? The loved ones they were forced to leave behind — did they deserve the abandonment? Lysithea had drawn a line between what was good and what was bad, but what right did she have to do that in the first place? Her nobility? Her crests? She could only scoff. She was sick of hearing the same old excuse.

Cyril is out of words, out of thoughts, only silence in his head. The faint screaming is somewhere deep inside, but they've always been avoidable. His stare falls to the wooden floor. The library was quiet today — and no one apart from the two of them was around to feel the intensity of the tension that quickly surrounds the vicinity. For Lady Rhea, maybe he would. Maybe for the people he cared for, he would, but he knew that wasn't the answer she was searching for. War was war, blood was blood, and however needless it may seem, death was inevitable during crises. He didn't know a lot, but he knew that much; because his family died, didn't they? The soldiers from House Goneril — they had slain his family and they took him away from Almyra. _You are disgusting._ Fódlani was hard, but the scornful look from the soldiers that day told Cyril a lot about how the people there viewed people like him. Worthless. Pathetic. Cyril was not meant for dreams — he was not meant for ambitions, maybe he was meant for war, but he was not meant to determine whether or not the bloodshed was necessary. He was meant to draw his arrows and swing his axe aimlessly — and at the same time, he was meant to sweep the floors clean, to wipe the tiles until they twinkle, to appease Lady Rhea or else she'd dispose of him as easily as how the knights from House Goneril did to his kind, maybe even easier. 

“It was a rhetorical question — take no offense.”

He sighs at that. Lysithea doesn't miss the relief in his exhale.

He is speechless once again, but neither of them make the move to acknowledge it. Lysithea was starting to get used to his silence; she didn't like it. She liked it when he spoke, because his voice calmed her down more than she let on. She liked it when he talked casually around her — because no one else did that, always sugarcoating their words around her because of her age. But he was quiet, and it was deafening. Lysithea liked quiet, but she didn't like it when he was.

It was three-fifteen now. Lysithea stands up abruptly, waving goodbye to Cyril as she walks out of the room.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Cyril.”

He watches her back slowly grow farther away with each step, the sound of her heels making contact with the floorboard echoing throughout the empty halls of the second floor. He dwells in the silence. He takes a matchstick from one of the shelves of the library, lighting up the candle she had blown earlier, opening up the book again. He had forty-five minutes until he had to start doing his chores. He had more time to read — so it was only natural that he should. He can nap later, he assures himself, maybe him being able to read this book would lighten up Lysithea's aura.

_“I suppose some ambitions are harder to reach than others.”_

The room was quiet, but his thoughts were particularly loud. Maybe one day, he can tell her what he wanted to.

* * *

The screams die down in the soldiers' throats whenever he pulls the axe out of them.

Nineteen — maybe twenty. How many times has he seen a body drop to the earth today? Maybe it was more; he was losing count. His ragged breathing was disruptive, it slowed him down. Each inhale that he was coerced to take felt like a million tiny stabs on his chest. Was he bleeding? If he was, then he'll deal with it later. The adrenaline pumping in his veins was still at an all-time-high, so he couldn't feel the pain of his scars just yet, fortunately for him. He runs. One by his left — three incoming behind him. He had eleven arrows left; his shield was chipped. He can do this.

The bandits were still screaming, and it was deafening for him, but he assured himself. They'll die down soon. It'll be okay. He'll be okay.

One swing, more blood sprinkles on the grass, tainting the green with thick, viscous red, and all he could think of was that he was bothered by the fact that he was unbothered; it was frustrating. It'll be okay. He'll be okay. He turns behind him, and he draws his bow, aiming for the three all at once. The fletching sways with the wind, and then the arrow's bullet point punctures the throats of two bandits; the third one was able to avoid it. Cyril takes in a deep breath — it'll be okay. This is almost over, he thinks to himself, because the professor was probably wrapping things up by now. He edges closer to the last one, evading the blade that almost cuts his neck. He delivers a fatal blow to the last; his chest heaving up and down quickly from the anticipation.

Cyril knows war — war had unnecessary bloodshed. He didn't like unnecessary bloodshed. He'd fight if he was asked to. But would he do it on his own accord? No. He wondered how Edelgard was able to stomach the rampaging soldiers and the ever-increasing number of casualties from each battle. Did she think this was necessary? He didn't know what she wanted to achieve, but would it be worth it? If for her, it would be, he will never know. But he knows he doesn't like it — he doesn't like any of this.

Marianne von Edmund catches a glimpse of an exhausted Cyril, soon making her way towards him as she tries to remedy some of his wounds. He stands still; breathless and lost in thought, staring at the horizon from the distance. The sun was rising. Was it six in the morning already? They've been going at it since dawn. He was tired. War was tiring; it'd been nearly five years of the same routine, the same survival tactics running through his head.

He mumbles a word of gratitude to Marianne, who in turn only nods at him, moving onto the next soldier that needed medical aid.

The ride back to the remains of the monastery was quiet. They left the field victorious, but the silence among the troops felt like tremendous loss. Claude and Byleth were in front, leading all of them home, whispering even more war strategies to each other as they moved. Claude was from Almyra, just like Cyril, and the two of them didn't fit quite right in with the others — but the key difference was that Claude had his own set of goals, while Cyril had none. The Alliance leader strived hard to end the war, to unify Fódlan, to get a better understanding of the dark groups that worked behind closed doors; the ones maneuvering the tides of the battles in secret. Cyril strived hard to survive today so he can survive tomorrow. He still cleaned around the monastery, even though the rubble was hard to work around, and he still read in clandestine bliss inside the library at night, even without Lysithea's knowledge.

Lysithea.

He raises his head, his gaze flickering to the head of white hair near the center of the cavalries. They haven't talked all that much ever since the professor's return a few moons ago. She approaches him when she helps out in distributing the rations, her smile still brimming with hope despite the circumstances, apart from that — their interactions were limited. After five years, he was still out of breath next to her, but he paid no mind to it.

She didn't look good with blood on her attire. Purple looked pretty on her — it accentuated her features. Periwinkle was pretty on white, but crimson didn't suit her at all; maybe it was the exhaustion — or maybe red just didn't look good on anyone, except maybe Edelgard von Hresvelg. He shakes his head after that; breaking away from his thoughts.

Edelgard had her reasons — still, he thinks that wouldn't justify the needless clashing of swords, but what did he know? Absolutely nothing. But perhaps Lysithea knew something; he'd turned to her countless times before about the things he wasn't familiar with, after all, and she's always delivered a satisfying response. 

Low chatter was starting to build up around the troops. Maybe Cyril can talk to Lysithea later.

* * *

It was one in the afternoon when he woke up from his fatigue-induced slumber. They had arrived at Garreg Mach at around seven-thirty in the morning; he remembers crawling immediately in his bed as soon as the others were settled. Everyone was bustling with excitement when he woke up, because rations were getting distributed again, and everyone was going to eat stew. He turns down the food he was offered, excusing himself momentarily as he makes his way out towards the second floor. He'll clean up a little in the audience chamber, and then maybe he can rest for the remainder of the afternoon inside the library — he picked up another book yesterday; it was about the folklore in Faerghus. The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus was cold. He learned that when he traveled to the place with Seteth and Shamir around two years ago; during one of their expeditions dedicated to searching for the whereabouts of Lady Rhea. He knew then, that the cold was harsher than the heat, because you can feel the cold strongly when it's present — and it gradually spreads across the depths of your system, through the cracks in your skin. He wasn't meant to stay in places with cold climates. Almyra was warm — and so was Garreg Mach. Cyril liked warm.

The hour passes by like a gust of brisk air.

Before he knew it, he was already hidden under the wooden stairs in the library, huddled up in intoxicating silence. Luckily, the faint singing of the birds outside kept Cyril more grounded. The entrance to the library creaks open, however, and he can only stare at the visitor in surprise. She hasn't been here in a while.

“Oh, Cyril.” Lysithea blinks twice, soon closing the door behind her. She scans the shelves and the books residing in them. The residual dust was piling up in one corner, but there were lots of debris standing in the way, so she figured that was why Cyril wasn't able to clean up much around here. The legs of the tables were unbalanced now, seeing as the heel of some of them were chipped. There were unlit candles atop each mahogany table, a matchbox beside each of them, and as well as scattered quills and half-empty ink bottles; blank, tarnished parchment paper laying idly near the materials.

“I see you're still reading earnestly,” she retorts softly, taking a seat two chairs away from Cyril. He frowns at this. “You've always been more studious than the rest of the students.”

“I have a lot of spare time now.” He impulsively replies, soon gluing his eyes to the textbook. Reading was easier for him now. Writing, too, but his penmanship was still sloppy. He liked reading — not much of a writer. “And, besides. Wouldn't want the books to go to waste.”

“You haven't changed much in five years, have you?” The sound of her giggles linger inside his head, an unfamiliar warmth creeping up to his neck and ears; he was glad that the library was fairly dim. “Are you able to read consistently now?”

He nods curtly at her after that — closing the book momentarily out of courtesy. The moment his eyes made contact with Lysithea's pink ones, he knew he wouldn't be able to look away. She's changed a lot. They were subtle changes, but they didn't go unnoticed. She was bolder now, more patient, more mature, if that was even possible. The tips of her fingers were wrapped around bandages, urging him to gesture hesitantly towards them quietly. Lysithea rubs her neck sheepishly.

“I overdid it earlier,” she laughs nervously. “Marianne and Mercedes are busy tending to the ones with graver injuries, so I figured I should take matters into my own hands.”

She sits there dully after that; just staring off into space, a neutral expression settled on her face. Cyril wonders then how she was taking the war — he had heard back then that she and Edelgard were close; he also knew that she'd bicker with Linhardt back and forth during their monastery days. It must be hard for her. But it was hard for him, and he had no emotional attachments to the enemy, so maybe it was harder for her.

Enemy. That left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“How have you been?” The question slips from his lips carelessly, regretting it immediately after. She turns to Cyril with a decisive smile, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, but he doesn't notice her calmer exterior.

“What?” Was her short query. His question was vague — Lysithea could say she was fine if he was asking about her general well-being as of the moment, or she could tell him she was growing more fearful with each blink, but she shuts that idea down as soon as it pops up. She crosses her legs. Contrary to her remark earlier, Cyril has evidently changed as well. His eyes were sharper. There were scars on his face and on his arms; he looked tired. But he was still as studious as ever; even with no one ordering him around — and that made her happy, somewhat, because it provided her a sense of familiarity amidst the abrupt change in the environment.

“Everyone is affected by the war — how has it affected you?” There was a pause in between Cyril's statement. Should he be asking her this? Did she consider him a friend? There was no harm in asking, he tells himself, but maybe she'd rather not talk about it. If she tells him off, he'd stop prying, of course.

Lysithea playfully kicks a piece of rubble on the floor.

“It hasn't.” She replies briefly. In truth, it affected her greatly, but she decides against telling him that for now. Cyril had his own burdens to carry — she didn't need him to carry hers as well. She could trudge on alone. She's been doing so for years now; what's the harm in a few years more? She was running out of time. Her heart could stop beating one of these days, so there was no need to tell anyone and make it harder for them. The war was hard for Cyril already, knowing Lysithea's condition would just make it harder for him. She didn't like that.

“Huh. I find that difficult to believe.”

The lingering silence sticks to the atmosphere uncomfortably. It was unnerving; she felt as if she was going to get suffocated if she didn't cut the tension open directly.

“Why is that?”

“You don't like wasting time, don't you?” Cyril questions, a concerned brow hiking up as he stared at her in bewilderment. She was always running around — making the most of her time, because it was precious to her, much like how doing tasks on his own was precious to Cyril. “Your own plans must have been put on hold because of this.”

“I am not meant to have dreams, Cyril.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes in a sharp breath. His heart was racing. What was that supposed to mean? People like Lysithea were blessed with the privilege to develop dreams and seize them shortly after. They were given the means necessary to achieve them. Nobles were blessed with something that commoners like him could only wish for in hazy, hazy daydreams; but never in real life.

The three o'clock bell chimes ominously in the monastery.

“I am out of time.”

And she meant that. Lysithea was out of time, out of desires, out of hope. Ever since she was implanted with two crests, she knew that dreams were out of the question. She will study now in hopes of surviving later; but that hardly qualifies as an ambition. It was more like a mantra, especially with how often she repeats those words in her head every minute of every day. _Indulge in more knowledge, make yourself strong, you have to compensate for your shortened lifespan. You are here one moment, but will you be here the next? Stop wasting time. Make haste._ Lysithea von Ordelia is not meant for dreams. Brilliant, although she was, she could never have them. They were fleeting — like her. Ambitions would get wasted on her. She didn't like waste.

Dreams were for people like Cyril, she tells herself, because people like Cyril deserved to have dreams.

She stands up from her seat; and even with her back turned, she can feel the male's gaze follow her figure, gradually moving closer towards the door. He wants to reach out to her — but his hands were too dirty, too tarnished, to hold Lysithea by her white dress. Red didn't look good on her. It didn't look good on Cyril as well, but his hands were sullied with unnecessary blood anyway.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Cyril.”

When she was finally gone, he rises from beneath the stairs, soon breaking the coalescence of the table and the chair, hastily grabbing onto a quill and a bottle of ink.

It was three-fifteen in the afternoon.

If he was speechless when she speaks — maybe he can write to her, instead.

* * *

**Lysithea,**

Five years ago, you said you didn't understand the appeal of war.

I don't think anyone does. War is not very appealing, I know that much because we're experiencing it right now. Edelgard probably isn't doing this just because she wants to. It's like you said — she's driven by her ambition. But, even still, reaching your ambitions in exchange for the lives of many sounds very harsh. I don't like it.

But I don't have dreams. None at all. In all honesty, I don't know where to begin with those. Do they come in pieces, or all at once? I am not meant to have ambitions. I don't think I am meant to have anything — but what do I know?

I do not know the language of ambitions, Lysithea, but I know you.

And you are not meant for war. You have soft hands. You can destroy an entire army with a snap of a finger — but I know you wouldn't want to do that. You are not meant for the perils of war, but I know you are the one most likely to survive it. You are strong, in spite of your delicate hands, and I don't think they deserve to get bloodied, no matter the reason. You don't look very good with red, you know? In the library, five years ago, you talked about what it means to reach ambitions — and I found myself wondering — did you not have one? You confirmed it today, and I was out of words again, just like before.

There are a lot of things I didn't say that day.

I am not meant for dreams, Lysithea, but I think you are.

**Sincerely,**

**Cyril**


End file.
